


Perhaps one did not want to be loved so much as to be understood

by StarryNightFire



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Future Mythea?, Gen, Light Angst, Mentioned Greg Lestrade, Mentioned John Watson, Mentioned Molly Hooper, Mycroft Holmes-centric, Sad Mycroft Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2020-05-14
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:14:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24180394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarryNightFire/pseuds/StarryNightFire
Summary: Here is the exploration of Mycroft Holmes' loneliness and why is it that he never get a goldfish for himself.
Relationships: Anthea & Mycroft Holmes
Comments: 6
Kudos: 24





	Perhaps one did not want to be loved so much as to be understood

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Yeah, I suck at summary, which is why there's no point for this either. Any suggestion or help would be greatly appreciated since English is not my first language. Enjoy reading!
> 
> ***
> 
> "Perhaps one did not want to be loved so much as to be understood" - George Orwell, 1984

**Perhaps one did not want to be loved so much as to be understood**

**-StarryNightFire-**

_Disclaimer: I do not own the characters, they belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (except for Anthea) and are adopted babies of Moffat and Gatiss (including Anthea)._

“Yes, but I have been away for two years.” He raised an eyebrow at his little brother’s innocuous tone. “Oh, I don’t know, I thought perhaps you might have found yourself a goldfish.”

To which Mycroft Holmes replied with a distasteful yet horrified ‘Change the subject, now’. They didn’t, not really. Sherlock decided to press the matter on with metaphors for a long while, enough to give Mycroft a headache. Enough to make his mind spin on its own axis, opening up like a bag of scrabble letters, looking for the answer that never once exist.

Why couldn’t he get a goldfish? Better yet, get himself a clown fish or a black telescope, someone of a higher up species, just to rub it in Sherlock’s face. He has plenty of scholarly people around him, has he not?

Lady Smallwood - surpass Molly Hooper in her authorities and determination. Sir Edwin, even with his rather dull mind could still top DI Lestrade in an intelligent battle. Then there’s John Watson, a special doctor this one is. Someone who would stick with his atrocious brother, die for that dreadful annoying human being if need be, even with this Mary Morstan in the picture, Mycroft never really doubt the unwise bravery.

“Mr Holmes?” A hand lightly taps on his knee, then pull away just as quickly when his eyes snap open. “Sorry to disrupt you from your mind palace, sir, but your schedule is clear for the day.” He spends the next beat to look at Andrea, and the black door to analysis slams shut, for he has already have a file for that. All that was left was a cautious look from her chocolate eyes and the slight movement of her chestnut hair.

Another door creek open. This one is caramel brown, and his suit is a shade of tan as well. This is where he learned how much his PA hates her name, but too attached to change it to anything too different. It’s always an alteration of Anthea, Alia, Aurora. It was a rather useless information, so he shifts to the next hazelnut door. A mistake, however, for the memories of late-night watching election and their politics preparation like a chess game trickle down like river stream, and the unclear warmth in his stomach when he recalls the time that they putted down terrorists like sand on fire. It was the trail down memory lane, and there are things along the path that he rather not let go.

“How about your day, Aurora?” He turns his head away, and he heard the smallest sigh from his PA, from the narrow escape of his piercing gaze.

“Just on my way to a Treachery meeting, then a few calls,”

Her words fade to background sound like a classical piece while his mind shifts its gear. His orderly brain aches in respond to the unmanageable questions he keeps leaking out. Obviously, Andrea would stick with him and die for him, but at what cost? Would he do the same? Are they Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, the detective and his companion? 

“Mycroft?” She didn’t touch him again, but the use of his first name have a much stronger effect. “Is your brother alright?” He blinks at the way his heart tightens, firmer than the grip he has on his umbrella handle. Sherlock has been sober, at least for the recent months, so he’s okay. But is Mycroft okay? Would Andrea see that he’s struggling, struggling to comprehend his loneliness and why he couldn’t be leave alone with his solitude life? Would anyone see? 

“I can stay.” She proposed, clearly ready to rearrange the meetings on another day. And he realises, painfully, that she’s the closest to a John Watson he may ever have, in the way she gladly offers her help and the kind eyes with no filter that she gave him. But it’s not what he needs, not at all.

“That won’t be necessary. Sherlock is perfectly fine. I would like the CCTV of Baker Street to be send to Diogenes Office though, thank you.” She holds his eyes for a moment, and he internally panic, because what if she asks, ‘if he’s okay’. Would he break down like that time he almost lost his little brother, or when the East Wind was blowing.

“Diogenes Club it is.” She said instead and the car roll away from the Speedy shop’s parking. He turns to the window, bag of scrabble letters ties back, no more questions were spill, only the French government’s code and Cabinet’s cases for him to solve. Something clicks.

*

It’s not until he was seated in the comfortable armchair with a steaming cup of tea, did he gingerly position the puzzles together. Sherlock has always been a sentimental boy, who used to never refuse a hug, always in need of attention and bawled his eyes out as an infant. Then there’s Mycroft, who was buried in cake and maths books, didn’t talk until four and refuse to be tuck in after five. It was never a wonder who was the favourite nor who was the one in constant need of love. Which is why a John Watson is a must need for the boy. When it comes to the admiration and adoration that the army doctor give, Mycroft’s unable of having. Hooper, Lestrade and Watson were never goldfishes to Sherlock, they are friends. 

The head of British Government doesn’t need coddling nor friends, not even when he was learning to walk. He needed someone to beat him a chess game, someone who understood the maths equation running in his head. Daddy and Mummy managed for a while, but he outdid them soon enough. Dr Watson may endure Sherlock’s mood swing, but he would not be able to survive Mycroft’s fearful conscience. Andrea may get his war tactics, but she would not be able to stand his alarming thoughts. And if a mind like Sherlock couldn’t understand him, no brain will ever can. And so, Mycroft Holmes sits in his office, watch back to the days where Sherlock and John would just hang in 221b baker, one busy himself into blog writing, the other into violin composing. He lets the memory lane swift him away, yet it never helps him relax. He absorbs the love from afar, yet it never makes him content.

_Because perhaps one did not want to be loved so much as to be understood._

And nobody understood Mycroft Holmes.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! xx


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